As the orchestra falls silent, veiled feminine

shadows pass beneath the branches

through whose dry leaves filter icy

chimeras of moonlight, pale varicolored clouds.

There are lips that weep forgotten arias,

ivory gowns feigning huge lilies.

Chatter and smiles in wild flocks

perfume the rugged woods with silk.

I hope the light of your return laughs;

and in the epiphany of your graceful form

the holy day will rejoice in gold major.

On your estate my verses will then bleat,

humming with all their mystical bronze

that the baby-jesus of your love has been born.